


Just Another Cold and Lonely Orphan

by Alys_Holmes



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: And Bahorel, But so does he, Feuilly/Bahorel (if you squint), Gen, I have a lot of Feuilly feels, Sad and lonely Feuilly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 10:48:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3893575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alys_Holmes/pseuds/Alys_Holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly reflects on his solitude whilst the Amis unknowingly bask in cheer a mere step away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Feuilly

It was a cold night, though all the nights were cold when you didn’t have enough meat on your body to shield your bones from the night, and your breath curled in tendrils around the smoke from your cigarette, twining together, dancing a sinuous duet of despair in the dark of the night.

  
Feuilly grasped the stub of a cigarette between his cold, calloused fingers, letting the chill freeze the anger that burned in his throat, exhaling it out with every smoky breath. He did this sometimes, when he needed a break from his friends or just to prepare for them, for Courfeyrac’s outrageous stories and Bossuet’s innocent chagrin at his own antics, for Joly’s laughter as he tried to get through his own story and Comebferre’s all too knowing gaze. Bahorel’s booming voice and Enjolras’ burning eyes, Grantaire’s inquisitive curiosity hidden behind his drunken follies and Musichetta’s kind but blatant queries. Jehan’s words that tightened around his neck with cheer he just couldn’t feel and even Marius’ innocent, naive assumptions.

  
He loved them, with every beat of his battered, broken heart he loved them with a fierceness born from hardship that forced every choice to become one of extremes. Every choice carefully weighed with the knowledge that it would have consequences, some known, some not, with every choice he lost something, and despite the pains they were, he chose his friends time and again. And he felt that he always would. But that didn’t meant that they weren’t pains in his ass. Especially on nights like these.

  
He had worked all day, starting at four in the bakery and cutting out at one thirty after being forced to sit and eat a lunch with one of his coworkers--the owner’s daughter who ran the place most days and mothered him like her three young sons as much as he would let her--and then running as fast as he could to his second job of the day, waiting tables at an Italian joint a few blocks down from the bakery.He was supposed to work until they closed at eleven but something had gone wrong in the kitchens and the sprinklers had gone off, forcing the restaurant to close for the night and the workers received an unexpected vacation day.

  
With his new free time, Feuilly had decided to surprise his friends by showing up at the cafe where he knew they often met up on Saturdays when he was working. But he had gotten as far as the large bay window and had had to step back and press the heels of his hands over his eyes, forcing his breath to come in even waves, biting back the bile that had churned through his body.

  
They were all there, every damn one of them, even the girl Eponine who had been skulking around for a few weeks and appeared to have every intention of continuing to do so until Grantaire had drunkenly called her out on it and she had been forced into their little family, somehow seamlessly finding a niche whether it was drinking with R, who appeared to be an old friend, debating with the group with a fury, or gazing at Marius which everyone saw but no one commented on; same as they had done for all their friends which frustratingly included R to this day even though Enjolras himself was now also on that list for unknowingly reciprocating the gaze when he wasn’t paying attention.

  
She didn’t go to the same school that most of the Amis went to, but she was smart and quick-witted, coming from the streets, she provided a view that Enjolras was forced to respect, especially when she had kindly informed him that if he ever once tried to use her as some stand-in for the “poor and downtrodden” she would be sure that the only way he could see those downtrodden was by looking up from the mud he would find himself in. Most days, Feuilly tried not to think about how she fit in better than he did.

  
How he never seemed to be around enough to have stories to share with them, how they all seemed to fit together so well and he just seemed, extra. How he had known them for years and still felt like he had just met them. How every time they had a conversation about an adventure he had been too busy to go on, he would bite his tongue and pretend it didn’t chafe and bite at him like ill-fitting clothing.  
She was there next to Grantaire, the two of them passing a bottle back and forth and laughing mercilessly at something that had Marius blushing like a fool. Looking at them you would never guess that she had met most of them formally only a month ago. Looking at them, you would never guess that most of them had only known each other for a few years, that the Amis themselves had only existed for two years. Looking at them you would never guess that there was someone missing.

  
So with shaking fingers he had ducked away from the golden light of the window and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it in spite of the hard rationing he kept himself to. He could hear their laughter, muffled from the window but clear in the cold air. He could see their light spilling out onto the street and the contrast it cut to the barren shadow he inhabited.

  
Rationally, he knew that there was no reason for them to leave him a spot, they had no idea he was coming, he was supposed to be working. This was supposed to be a surprise. But emotions never really had listened to his rationale before. Especially not when they concerned the bitter loneliness that had haunted his steps from childhood, lurking behind every door and around every corner, reminding him that he was never enough. He worked too hard and too often, he didn’t connect with people emotionally, he didn’t know the right things. He was just some impoverished orphan that the masses could take pity on when it benefited them.

  
And when he got to the end of that cigarette, he seriously contemplated lighting another one, seriously thought about giving himself an excuse he would never admit to, to wanting any reason to stay around that warmth and that light when he knew for a fact that he was going to go back to his cold apartment and lick his selfish wounds without ever letting anyone know he had been around. But just as he stubbed the last of that red pinprick of light under his toe, with some preternatural sense he had acquired in all those foster homes, he heard the silence.

  
His friends, a few feet to his right, but separated by a thousand miles of differences and brick, had fallen quiet. That boisterous and riotous group, was not making a single sound. And then, clear as could be coming through the window, he heard a voice say, “oh my god. Isn’t that Feuilly’s restaurant?”

  
Like the creature of prey he had been raised to be, Feuily’s heart kicked faster and his breath started to come in shallow heaves, he didn’t know what they were talking about but that had been his name and it couldn’t be anything good. He jumped away from the wall to run but was frozen in his tracks when the door flung open and Bahorel’s voice came booming out, followed rapidly by his body. “You fuckers start calling him, I’m finding him!”

  
A voice echoed out, something about a coat that was in all likelihood Joly, but Bahorel’s body seemed impervious to the cold of the night, his tanned skin seeming to glow, carrying that light from the cafe out into the dark of the night with him, shedding it around him and all over Feuilly, who stood there staring at him, gaping like a fish.

  
Bahorel had already begun to take a long stride in his direction when he registered that he was already standing there, “Feuilly! You’re here!”

  
Feuilly blinked, and held his hands open ,”uh, surprise?”

  
Before he knew quite what was happening, he was wrapped in Bahorel’s long, broad arms, the warmth of the cafe suddenly seeping through his clothes and into muscles he only just realized were freezing, nearly lifting him right off the ground. He had been subjected to a countless number of hugs from Bahorel but never had he felt one that seemed to pinch as it held him just a little too tight, just a little too close to his body. One that smacked of a fear being relieved by the sight of him. “Uh, ‘Rel? Kinda hard to breathe.”

  
“Shut the fuck up, you don’t get to talk fucker. You’re getting hugged and you’re damn well going to deal with it, you scared the fuck out of me!” Feuilly was silent in his surprise. “We saw your damn restaurant on the news you dumbass,” roughly, but more from violent emotion than physical, Bahorel let him go, keeping him close. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to let us know you’re okay after your workplace goes up in flames?”

  
“Didn’t think you would find out actually, I was coming to surprise you…” He supposed the fact that he had nearly run home could be overlooked for now.

  
“Dumbass.” Was all he got in response before he was suddenly being dragged inside towards the group who looked less like that had been afraid for his safety and more like they had been watching the two of them out the window like the bunch of high school gossip fiends they all really were, faces pressed against the glass and everything. But with that he was swallowed by the light and the cheer, enveloped by his friends, Joly who insisted on checking to make sure that he was okay, perhaps he had inhaled some smoke? No not like from a cigarette Grantaire that isn’t funny it’s a serious health concern. Enjolras who nodded to him and like the mother hen he secretly was, nearly visibly relaxed at having his entire brood back where they ought to be. Grantaire who slid his shot down to where he suddenly found himself sitting, proclaiming whiskey the best response to nearly dying in a fire, and Bahorel, who sat closer than was necessary, but his presence was a comfort to him nonetheless. Though he would be shot before he would admit it.

  
It was loud, it was far too warm, there were too many people crowded into a tight space, and he couldn’t even begin to understand where one conversation ended and another began. It hurt to sit here among them, feeling every year of schooling he didn’t have, and every dollar he had earned himself just to get by, every dream he had had to choose to abandon, because he had more practical things to worry about. And he felt their eyes on him, watching him and nudging him when they needed his attention, wrapping him into their conversations and their laughter. Drinking with him and choosing to spend their time with him. And he knew, that this was his choice too. It was a choice he made every day, and it hurt him every day.

  
But as he threw back the shot and leaned forward, describing the chaos of the fire at the restaurant to a mostly attentive audience, he knew he would make that choice every day and it would always be the same, because this was his broken family, and he would fight for them, and fight for his place among them.


	2. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my own personal Feuilly who I finally finished this for. This is for you LizzieBanner <3

Grantaire slipped the bottle from Eponine’s fingers and took a swig, leaning back from her as she swiped at him halfheartedly, laughing. She leaned into him rather than sitting up straight and looked over at Marius, “hey Marius.”

The ginger headed boy picked his head up and looked over to where Eponine and Grantaire were sitting, “uh, yeah?”

Grantaire grinned, “we were just wondering if you wanted a drink, we could get you a…”

“Glass of milk?” Eponine interjected.

Marius’ face turned bright red and his voice climbed in pitch, “It was _one_ time! And it was the first drink I ever had! I didn’t know what liquor tasted like!”

Grantaire and Eponine were set off into peals of laughter, prompting others to lean over; Jehan turned fully towards them from his conversations with Courfeyrac and asked, “wait, are you guys talking about how naïve Marius is again?”

Marius let out a quick “hey!” that was swept over as everyone laughed, the tale familiar.

Grantaire gestured with his bottle to his red-faced victim saying, “indeed, that cold and lonely night that bore the budding friendship between this fair faced faun and I wherein it was discovered that I did indeed still bear some ability to feel shame. Tricking a young boy into inebriation under the guise of the most innocent beverages, trying his best to strengthen his growing bones, the milk instead betrayed him.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow and smiled gently over his glass, “has anyone ever pointed out to you that you technically were getting an underage kid publicly intoxicated?”

Grantaire sat up straight, dislodging Eponine who stole the bottle back from him. “Pardon me! But I had never met him before that night! How was I supposed to know that he was still a kid!”

Enjolras laughed and had to put his glass back down on the table as he flung his hand out to Grantaire, “he honestly thought you were buying him milk! At a bar! What legal adult does that!”

Marius laid his head down on the table, “guuuuuyyyyysssssss” he whined, “come on! I didn’t know how bars worked…”

Eponine leaned forward as everyone else laughed, patting him on the shoulder, “it’s okay buddy, we could tell.”

“’Ponine!” She started laughing harder than everyone else at poor Marius’ expense.

“Seriously though Marius, it was a White Russian, it was half cream and half liqueur! There wasn’t even milk involved!” Eponine continued.

The room was filled with laughter that was cut by the sound of the television over the bar steadily increasing in volume with breaking news. “This just in! There are reports of a fire at a local restaurant, there is little information at the moment but we have heard that something set up the sprinklers in the kitchens and an automatic call was made to the fire department, you can see behind me the restaurant in question—”

The Amis were silent as they watched the building, Courfeyrac was the first one to speak, “isn’t that Feuilly’s restaurant?” He turned away from the TV and back to the group, “was he working there tonight?”

Bahorel suddenly stood, the color drained from his face. It was all the confirmation they needed to know that the humor of the night was gone. Bahorel took off for the door shouting as he flung it open, “you fuckers start calling him, I’m finding him!”

As he sprinted out Joly called out, “don’t forget your coat! It’s freezing out there!” He turned and looked out the window where he gasped, taking everyone’s attention away from their phones where they had begun trying to reach Feuilly, “guys!”

Everyone turned to look out the window and those sitting opposite the booth across the table got up and ran around; the entire group crowded into the large bay window, cupping their hands around their eyes to better see the dark street outside. Bahorel stood there in shock, staring at a familiar face that had drawn Joly’s shout.

As the larger man grabbed the other in a bone-crushing hug everyone gasped and the relief at knowing their friend was safe loosened their lips; a low murmur of chatter filling the air. They couldn’t hear what was being said between the two of them but they could see the broad grin on Bahorel’s face.

“Do you think they’re finally going to kiss?” Courfeyrac asked.

“They’ve only been making eyes at each other since the day they met” Musichetta responded.

Marius leaned over Grantaire’s head, smooshing down his hair, “wait, kiss? Are they gay?”

Everyone groaned and Grantaire leaned back, nearly knocking Marius off his awkward perch, and saying, “can you not see the way they look at each other? Feuilly has been in love with Bahorel for years, Bahorel just hasn’t figured out that what he feels for Feuilly is love.”

Marius was quiet for a moment before saying gently, “I don’t think it’s a great idea to make assumptions about your friends like that.” There was a guilty silence among the entire group, “also I think they’re coming inside.”

There was a rapid scrambling as everyone dashed back to their seats and drinks, making a rather weak attempt at pretending they weren’t just ogling out the window and were in fact, grown adults.

As Bahorel burst back through the door—he wasn’t really able to enter a room otherwise—dragging Feuilly behind him. Immediately Joly leapt up, holding his hands to his cheeks, “you’re frigid! You were out in that cold far too long, come and sit down here.” He shuffled Bossuet over out of the short booth at the head of the long table and onto the chair where Bahorel had been sitting, pushing both men to sit on the worn vinyl.

The seat was a bit cramped and Bahorel had to rest his arm across the back of the seat to give Feuilly room while Joly sat next to Boss and asked Feuilly to take a deep breath. “Do you feel any tightness? Any difficulties breathing? You could be suffering from smoke inhalation.”

“Oh I’m pretty sure he is,” Grantaire joked, miming holding a cigarette between his fingers.

“R! This is serious! We don’t know how long he was in that environment!”

Feuilly smiled while the two bickered good-naturedly and Joly finally released him as Boss proclaimed that he would knit him a thick scarf for Christmas that would keep him warm in the colder weather.

At the other end of the table Enjolras smiled at him, glad that all of his friends were under one roof and together at one table. The small piece of his mind that had been distracted by the absence of one of his friends settled and he leaned back, finishing his glass, able to relax.

Grantaire grabbed one of the shots on the table and deftly slid it down a foot to where Feuilly was sitting, “come on then hero, tell us what happened!” Feuilly laughed awkwardly but Grantaire continued, “if you don’t I’ll start chanting until you do.”

“Okay, okay!” Feuilly threw back the shot and began with telling them of his day, beginning with the start of his shift. They listened aptly, curious for news of the event and soaking up the presence of their friend who they never got to see as much of as they wanted to. Eponine at one point brought an entire tray of shots for the table, declaring that was the end of her paycheck and the table was buying the rest of her drinks for the night.

As the night wore on, everyone laughed until their stomachs began to hurt, they drank until they giggled and Courfeyrac took selfies with everyone until he filled the memory on his phone, then proceeded to steal Combeferre’s when he wasn’t looking and accidentally drop it in the dregs of Enjolras’ glass. Eventually the bar began to empty out and everyone agreed again and again that they ought to head home, that they had to get up early tomorrow—which Grantaire blew raspberries at every time someone mentioned it, declaring Sundays only good for sleeping—or that they were going to be paying with a hangover anyway. But nobody got up until the night had worn well into the early hours and the bartenders began shooting them dirty looks.

Eponine had to practically be dragged out as they began to bundle up into their coats, and Enjolras asked quietly if perhaps given that it was a Saturday night, everyone might like to come over to his and Combeferre’s, since it was within walking distance and they had the floor space for mass sleepovers. It didn’t take much to convincing to get everyone headed down the street towards the apartment.

That night the normally silent apartment was filled with over a dozen sleeping and snoring bodies, and Enjolras, habitually plagued by insomnia, was sitting awake in his armchair wrapped in a warm blanket. He smiled watching his friends gradually become more piled together; Grantaire was passed out cold in Eponine’s armpit, Joly, Musichetta, and Boss were piled together and he wasn’t entirely sure whose limb belonged to whom, and to his secret delight, Feuilly was curled up in Bahorel’s arms, his head laying on his chest.

Slowly his eyes began to close and his head began to grow heavier, leaning against the chair. He shifted the blanket up higher on his shoulder and let the lull of his friends sleeping wash over him and drift him gently into sleep.

 

~~~~~~

 

He was going to ban them from coming in ever again, he swore that he was. It didn’t matter how well they paid or that the girls in the group always expertly carried the glasses back up to the bar—obviously they had experience in a bar. No, it didn’t matter that they were regulars and generally didn’t get out and out smashed. As the bartender continued wiping down the window, he promised himself that at the very least, he wouldn’t let that group sit next to the window again. They scared off customers.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
